We Could Beat Them, Forever and Ever
by thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: "I can remember standing by the wall, and the guns shot above our heads, and we kissed as though nothing could fall, and the shame, it was on the other side…"


He had said that it was so important to keep fighting. He'd always believed that, though the choice of words was ironic now: in his few spare hours he still _saw _the fighting in the trenches, still heard the guns shooting above and around him and felt cold mud under his feet and hot tears on his face. Sometimes it seemed like he'd never left the front. There was no rest for him.

But he didn't let it show. He tried to tell himself that he would be all right. That he could still make something of his life, even now. He wasn't about to let them win: the foolish, fat cat politicians who sent him and a million other young men off to die, or the toffs who'd always looked down on him because he didn't have their start in life – or the family and friends who turned on him for being a queer. (As if that had done _them _any harm.)

A memory stirred in him, made his heart flutter, uncomfortably.

"How? Why are you different?" Lieutenant Courtenay had asked, in a terse voice that made Thomas wonder if he might _know_. They'd clasped hands then. The next day, and the one after that, and even now, a week later, Thomas was as physical as he dared to be with the other man. He could just imagine the scandal if he was found out. They'd say he was shameful, a dangerous pervert and a menace to wounded men – real heroes – who had fought for King and country. (People said Thomas was a heartless, self-serving coward, but that wasn't all there was to him: he'd hate to be prevented from doing some real good for the first time in his life. He really _would_.)

But Lieutenant Courtenay never seemed to mind his touch.

"Do you never sleep?" Courtenay asked. His voice was curious but not hostile, and even if it had been Thomas could not have blamed him. He might have woken him from one of the nightmares that Thomas himself knew too well.

"There's too much to do, sir," he said.

There _was_. It was a good excuse not to sleep any more than was strictly necessary.

"I suppose there is, for you," Courtenay murmured, settling back against his pillow. Thomas watched him closely. He'd been spending as much time as he could with Courtenay, only just avoiding complaints from the other staff that he was playing favourites. But Courtenay was needy and beautiful and badly wanted someone to be strong for him, to show him not to give in. Maybe everyone there was – he just didn't see it because Courtenay was special to him.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Thomas asked.

Courtenay hesitated, then shook his head. Still Thomas thought there was something. He'd spent enough time with the young officer to read his moods and know when he was particularly, worryingly morose, or when he might actually be willing to talk a bit.

"Well, if there is anything -"

"Actually, I – can't sleep," Courtenay said.

He said nothing more, but Thomas knew he wanted someone to stay with him even if he would never condescend to ask for it.

"Me neither," Thomas said. He drew up the wooden chair by Courtenay's bed where he had sat so often, and made sure to scrape the floor audibly. "Do you mind if I sit here for a bit, sir?"

Courtenay shook his head. He was glad of the company, Thomas knew. Well – as glad as he could be, given the circumstances.

"You've done so much for me," Courtenay said, calm and neutral, as if he were making the most casual of observations. But Thomas tensed, rather grateful that the other man couldn't see him flushing up. He hoped he hadn't revealed too much of himself. He always _did _get so foolish about his men…

"No more than my duty, sir," he said.

Courtenay arched his brows – he was too clever to settle for that – but said merely "No…"

Thomas shifted in the chair. Courtenay didn't press him. Thomas half-wanted him to, but he didn't, this time, and when he spoke again it was with that quiet bitterness that worried Thomas more than anything.

"I don't know how I shall get on without you or Nurse Crawley," he said.

"You'll manage," Thomas reassured him. "You've done so well -"

"Please -"

"You have," Thomas insisted. Then, rather stupidly, "Do you have someone to go to when you get out – a sweetheart or someone?"

Courtenay laughed darkly.

"Who'd want me _now_?" he said. "Hardly."

"Plenty would, sir," Thomas said, before he could stop himself. Courtenay cocked his head.

_Damn_, Thomas thought. He wished he hadn't said anything, and bit at his lip, hard enough to taste a faint tang of blood. He'd read enough of Courtenay's letters to him to know there was no one – just an old mother somewhere, with her patronizing "my dearest Ted" and her glowing reports about her younger son's plans.

"I'm not as sure as you are," Courtenay murmured.

It was a fine mess Thomas had gotten himself into. But if he was in for a penny, then he may as well be in for a pound. He reached for the other man's hand. Courtenay returned his grip twice as strong.

"And what about you?" Courtenay asked. "You said to me once that you've always been alone – that you always felt different from other people. You never said _how_."

That familiar terror rose in Thomas, making his stomach sink and his skin grow. It never got any easier, no matter how old he got. Should he give himself away? He'd been trying to provoke it, half-consciously, he realized. Could he admit that his feelings for the other man went beyond mere friendship, or would such a damning confession disturb and disgust Courtenay? The lieutenant had spoken a little too highly of Lady Sybil and of some of the dons' daughters in Oxford. But he seemed fond of Thomas too – rather physical with him, never shying away from either a touch or a word...

Maybe Thomas was just seeing what he wanted to see. He'd had lovers before, of course, and he'd had plenty of chances to observe friendships between men who were _not_ like him, but still it was always such a muddle in these early stages.

_I _should_ risk it_, he thought. He'd tried his luck before with just as much at stake and sometimes even less to go on.

"There might be someone," he began, though his throat was dry. "I just dunno if _they_ feel the same way."

He tried to emphasize that he did not use the word _'she'_. Courtenay sat quietly, alert and expectant – interested. _Better than lying alone and indifferent to the world_, Thomas thought. God, he hoped he wasn't about to bungle everything.

"Go on," Courtenay said.

Thomas bit at his thumbnail. He heard one of the other men – Trenholme, Captain Trenholme – begin to cough and splutter, and looked over at him with barely suppressed annoyance.

And yet, it might be for the best. He was on the edge of a precipice that could cost him Courtenay's esteem forever. It might be good to think on it a bit longer.

"I'd better go, sir," he said.

Still he had to drag himself away, as if his legs would not stand up to go to Trenholme when he could be with Courtenay instead.

"Yes, of course," Courtenay murmured. "I can't keep you all to myself."

Thomas flushed at the choice of words.

"It's fine, sir," he said, and wondered again how much of his secret the Lieutenant might have guessed.

It was some thirty minutes at least before Thomas was done with Trenholme. By then the Yorkshire wind was howling by the hospital windows and Courtenay's bed was empty. Thomas frowned. He turned on his heel and all but ran into the corridor outside the dormitory, a strange sort of unease – panic, almost – gripping him.

To his relief Courtenay was standing in the corridor by one of the arched windows, his cane half-forgotten in a loose grip and his face turned upwards as if to stare out at the night. The wind continued its eerie wailing unabated. Thomas stopped short and let out a breath. He _would _feel like a fool now – his friend must have wanted some privacy, or some cooler air away from the dormitory, or some such. _There's nothing wrong…_

"Is that you, Corporal Barrow?" Courtenay asked. He gripped his cane more firmly and extended it out in front of him, cautiously, as he turned around.

"It is, sir," Thomas replied.

"I thought I recognized a certain trick of your walk, or your sigh when you're hurried or flustered..."

Thomas tried to laugh. "Well, you surprised me." Then, remembering his concern moments before, "I just wanted to ask if you were – if you needed anything."

"Only to clear my head," Courtenay replied. "I'm quite all right."

"Very good."

Thomas stared at the other man. Courtenay had a way of disarming him, of leaving him at a loss as to what he should say or do. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling – not with _him_, at least.

"Did you want to continue talking?" Courtenay asked. "If you don't mind staying here for a while. I find it much cooler…"

It _was_ cooler than the dormitory. But they could also be alone here. They both knew that.

The thought was almost enough to make Thomas giddy. His skin actually tingled. Courtenay _must _feel something for him, too. Why else would he go out of his way to lure him out and speak in private?

"I'm happy to," he said, and could not hold back a grin. "We can finish the – talk we were having earlier…"

"Well, it's just that you know a good deal more about me than I know about you, and I am curious," Courtenay said, leaning against the wall.

"I'm glad – glad you'd take an interest," Thomas said. "You're not tired, are you?"

Courtenay almost hissed with impatience.

"I _can_ stand, if that's what you're asking," he said.

Thomas looked away. "Sorry. I know that."

Then Courtenay softened.

"No matter," he said gently. "But you must tell me who it is that has you so preoccupied at present."

It was such a natural, teasing thing to say, as if they were old friends – as if they were equals. Thomas imagined the other man at Oxford or at home in happier times, laughing with friends over young love. Then he imagined _being _that love, and actually put one cold hand to his face as if to hide himself from sight.

"One of the officers?" Courtenay pressed, pulling Thomas from his daydream.

Thomas drew in a sharp breath. So Courtenay _had _guessed. He wished he had a cigarette, and bit at another fingernail, suddenly hesitant.

"What – would you do if I answered yes?" he countered, trying to muster a bravado that he did not feel.

"I wouldn't think any less of you, if you're worried," Courtenay replied. "I'm not stupid. I know of these things and I don't – mind. And I would ask if you had these feelings about me."

And now Thomas was actually speechless. He hadn't thought he was being that obvious or crossing any line of propriety – not _this_ time. He wasn't even sure if Courtenay was like him – not a hundred per cent sure, at any rate...

"Well then," he stammered, finding his voice at last, "I would ask you why you thought that."

Courtenay gave a soft sound that was almost, though not quite, a laugh. Thomas would have bristled had anyone else done that to him, but his feelings for the other man made him humbler, softer. He wasn't sure he liked it, but he was used to it.

"Don't worry," Courtenay said. The tone was hard to read – curious, but detached, too. Thomas wondered if he was laying bare his feelings to be studied more than reciprocated. But then Courtenay was clever. He'd always seemed so clever. Thomas had loved him for that, among other things, even when it made him cynical or hard to reassure.

"I – I don't think anyone else would notice, or has noticed, and as I say I don't mind," Courtenay went on. "But you're – clearly one way with me and another with everyone else. You've been exceedingly kind – I mean that. You've gone above and beyond duty, or – " he hesitated – "even friendship. And it's more than that, too. Your tone of voice, and things like that."

"Well then," Thomas repeated, when he found his voice. He tried to tell himself that Courtenay's cleverness had made things rather easier for him, and held out his hand, faltering. Courtenay took it without hesitation. Thomas breathed a small sigh of relief. It had been so long since he'd had his feelings reciprocated…

"I do admire you very much, sir," he said.

A faint smile tugged at Courtenay's mouth – _very_ faint, but one of the first Thomas had seen in all this time. He seemed so pleased Thomas could scarcely believe it. Surely he must feel the same, to respond like this...

"I – wish I could see you right now," Courtenay said. Thomas wanted to reassure him, to say that it didn't matter, but that was hardly true, and he couldn't say anything so callous – not to _him_. Besides, Courtenay was reaching up to touch Thomas's face, stroking his forehead and cheek and lip because that was the closest he could _get_ to seeing him. The touch made Thomas's mouth go dry. He felt the first stirring of desire in his body, the first he had felt since the trenches, when fear and ugliness had driven all such thoughts from him. He put a hand on Courtenay's waist, moving so fast he hardly realized he was doing it, and kissed him. Courtenay stood motionless for a moment. Then, for the briefest second, he parted his lips to kiss Thomas back.

Silently, his heart pounding against his ribs, Thomas thanked God that they were alone in the draughty corridor. In that instant he actually pictured a future for them. He had it all figured out now. He would help Courtenay heal, and go away to build a life with him somewhere as friend, lover, servant – anything…

But Courtenay pulled away too soon. His face darkened and he tilted his head down, moving jerkily, as if to stare at the floor.

Thomas's face fell. His blood ran cold with panic, and he told himself that he must say something – anything – but no words came to him.

"I didn't – " Courtenay began, sounding confused. Then his tone grew harsher. "We should be court-martialled – perhaps publicly flogged. What do you think my family would say then? The shame of it – "

"It should be their shame, not ours," Thomas snapped. The wrongness of it all galled him more than it ever had.

It was too late, though. Courtenay put out his hand to steady himself and reached for the wall, rather than Thomas. Thomas cringed. _How like me, to assume too readily, and try too much, too fast…_

"Please don't –" he began.

"I already told you I wouldn't report anything," Courtenay said, quickly, as if that were the best answer he could give. Thomas's stomach twisted. He tried again.

"Look, I –"

Courtenay shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind."

Thomas suppressed his sigh. He told himself that it could have gone much worse, yet that did little to ease the crushing tightness in his chest or the cold, sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach from dashed hope. He squeezed his eyes shut. A minute ago he'd imagined them winning, imagined that whole future they could have had if only… what? If only Courtenay were like him, or weren't afraid?

Thomas opened his eyes again. "Well, I could at least help you back…"

Courtenay flushed and stood up a little straighter, more rigid.

"You know I can walk back to bed alone," he said. There was a sharpness in his voice that Thomas had not expected. It stung him, but he had no choice at this point.

"All right," he said, and forced himself to turn away from the other man and down the chilly corridor.

Still he could not help glancing back over his shoulder at Courtenay as he walked away. He was almost glad the officer could not see the lines of bitter regret he had brought to Thomas's face.


End file.
